


Following in Bloody Footsteps

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-09-22
Updated: 2000-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:01:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy, the day after, finds Joe's attempt to recapture times gone by. He didn't do a very good job of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Following in Bloody Footsteps

**Author's Note:**

> Angst and blood and generally, a lot of unpleasant messiness. End of movie spoilers.

Billy didn't look up as John entered the bus stop. The soonest he could be out on a flight was Thursday, and he didn't want to hang around on Stand-by waiting for someone to die to take their seat. The bus wasn't glorious, but it was the only way out.

His mouth hurt, and he absently ran his tongue into the gap the molar made. The lights were too white and harsh. He caught a look at himself, old, too fucking old. He'd been lucky; Joe just knocked it out rather than breaking it with his fucking rings. The blood clot was thick and coppery, and it stung enough that he couldn't drink. Not that the old man behind the counter would let him. He looked at Billy's bloody stage clothes and almost called the cops.

Almost, but didn't. Billy had taken out the last of his Canadian money to buy a ticket south and promised not to make trouble, and the old man went back to his porn. The fifty-six hours the bus was going to take didn't bother Billy at all. He stocked up on cheap batteries for his Walkman and would wait it out if it meant...

He took a deep breath. Fuck Joe for fucking him over one fucking last time. Joe wasn't the only one fucking people over during the tour, but Billy was honestly going to tell Joe. Alone. The Toronto thing was still going to be on, he would have flown back.

Bullshit, that little voice in his head said, but he ignored it. Or tried to. It didn't work. It knew even if he wasn't going to admit it, that once he got caught up on the tour the last thing he would want to do was fly across the continent to play. He looked around the Edmonton Greyhound station. It was non-smoking, but the grime on the walls couldn't hide the smell of ancient cigarettes. He considered, briefly, getting up to go play the pinball machine in the shitty little arcade, but he couldn't look at the flashing lights without seeing him and Joe leaning over the machine with their beers perched on the flat surface, trying to tilt the damn thing into giving them their balls back.

Fuck.

He closed his eyes and tried to get comfortable in the chair, but it wasn't working. His fingers itched; they wanted the strat and it was going to take months if not years to replace it. Fuck Joe again. That was just so fucking typical. Destroying something precious just to hurt him.

Well, fuck Joe Dick. No way in hell was he dancing the fucker's dance.

When John cleared his throat, Billy almost punched him. He didn't think Joe would come back for more; he had made his feelings clear in that last smirk. But it was just John. Only it wasn't. This John was white even without his paint on, and the front of his shirt was covered in blood. He didn't look like he was bleeding. Billy was about to ask who the fuck died, but suddenly it wasn't funny.

"B...B...Billy," he managed, and then bit his lip. "Billy, there was an accident," he said.

Fuck, Joe. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck fuck. The word filled his head, and he didn't try to shake it off. Fuck. Damn it, fuck...Accident his ass.

The guy behind the counter was reaching for the phone; one bloody punker was one thing, but two was a trend and it wasn't his job. Billy shot him the finger on the way out the door.

It was only three blocks from the station back to the Rave; another reason why he had tried to bus it rather than take a cab down to the international. He saw the crowd in front of the bar and pushed his way through. When pushing didn't work, he started lashing out, and eventually he broke through.

Fuck, Joe. There was no one else who could be under the tarp. The coroner was over the body, taking fucking pictures of the blood on the pavement; the body was under the tarp. Bruce was being interviewed by a couple city police.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The cop in charge of crowd control tried to stop him from crashing the barrier, but Billy launched himself at the fucker and it was a blur. Pipefitter pulled him off, and it took a moment to realize that he was howling. The cop looked annoyed at being jumped and tried to push him back into the crowds, but Pipe stopped him from drilling the guy. Probably saved him from a night in jail.

Joe.

Goddamn it.

He looked down and realized he was standing in Joe's blood, black against the road. He jumped back, leaving a bloody footstep. The coroner said something to him, but he didn't hear the words. His head was crashing with sound, and nothing made it through. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Joe's fucking gun. Goddamn it. He swore he got rid of it when they were sixteen. Or maybe it was another one, but he doubted it. Joe always had a flare for dramatics. He had scored it off one of his drug buddies desperate for a hit.

The coroner was pulling on his sleeve. He was trying to say something to him, but Billy looked at him and wondered what his blood would taste like when he tore the fucker's throat out. He pointed down to the body and said something else, but Billy glared at him. It wasn't until Bruce touched his shoulder that he backed away and let them take Joe...it away.

Bruce had a bottle. He took it. Bruce tried to protest, but Billy pushed him away. When Bruce insisted, Pipefitter kept him from smashing the bottle over his head. The alcohol stung the empty tooth-socket in his mouth, but he lingered on the pain. His tongue aggravated the new scab and it came off. His mouth was suddenly filled with blood and he spat it out into the pool where Joe's head used to be. Death did them part. Well, fuck him, too, asshole.

He gulped at the bottle like water. Pipefitter finally yanked it away from him. He demanded it back, and if he didn't make sense his intentions were clear. Pipefitter shook his head, said something, and Billy punched him.

Pipefitter took it, and didn't retaliate. That pissed him off, so he punched the fucker again. Still, nothing. He went to lash out a third time, but Pipefitter grabbed him and he couldn't free his arm.

The trapped feeling crippled him, and he fought, but John moved behind him and he was trapped. He tried to break free, tried to explain that if he stopped moving he couldn't stop himself from breaking down, but they didn't care.

He broke down.

He woke up the next morning, sat up, and started to cough the shit out of his lungs. He did it every morning, and each time it took more and more out of him. He was too fucking old. And disoriented. He looked around, and blinked. The band house. Fuck. He closed his eyes so he didn't have to look at the peach paint and the off white curtains, but couldn't escape stink of old sweat and smoke and sickness and need and desperation of the room. Band houses, last refuge of the has-beens and the almost-weres. Fuck. "What the hell are we doing here, Joe?" Billy asked, but Joe didn't answer.

Joe didn't answer because Joe was dead. Fuck all over again. Joe shot his fucking head off. Joe got dead. Joe got himself fucking dead. The surrealness of the night before had no place in a room that had cracked plaster on the wall in the shape of Florida.

He closed his eyes, willing himself back to sleep, but his mind couldn't let go of Joe. He closed his eyes, but it didn't make it all go away. He rolled over to his side, stubbornly not wanting to think about it, but he couldn't ignore the knocking.

"Fuck off," he called.

The banging persisted. "Mr. Boisey?"

That made it official. Fuck again. "Go away," he called.

"Mr. Boisey, we have questions to ask you."

Answering the door would be less work than ignoring them. He shuffled over and yanked the door open. "Thank you, Mr. Boisey. As you can probably tell, this is a fairly cut and dried case, but we have a few questions to ask."

The second one was the one Billy jumped to get to the body. He didn't say anything, but finally moved back to the bed. He still wore the clothes he had on the day before, but his shoes were off. Joe's blood was splattered on them, and it was losing its bright redness. In another day it would be rust, and then brown. He picked up his shoes and threw them in the trash can beside the bed.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Last night, you had a fight with the deceased, did you not?" the first man asked. Billy sat back on the bed. "Mr. Boisey?"

"I fought with Joe every night. Yesterday was nothing special."

The man hummed. "What was the fight about, Mr. Boisey?"

"Stuff."

"Could you be more specific?"

"No."

"Mr. Boisey, I understand that this is painful, but we'd like to clear you of any wrong doing before you leave the country."

"Wrong doing? Me? Do you think I had anything to do with Joe blowing his fucking head off?" Billy demanded. The thought made him sick. He had avoided arrest his entire adult life, no help from Joe, and now he was fucked. It stung that his chances of getting a greencard came up as a concern before Joe did, but Joe should have thought of that before he emptied out most of his brain cavity.

"No, sir. We don't. We just like to fill in the blanks. You and the deceased had a fight within hours of him committing suicide, and we are told he threatened your life in public."

"Yeah, well Joe's a compulsive liar. And you can see, I'm still alive. Is that all?"

The first cop looked at him. "In a hurry, Mr. Boisey?"

Billy was going to snap at him, but suddenly he was tired. He put his head in his hands, but only for a moment. "The body...I thought...has his father been notified?" he asked.

"Mr. Mulgrew was called last night, yes."

"And?" Billy asked. He looked up. He had never gotten along with Joe's father; he had been pegged as a bad influence.

The second cop cleared his throat. "Mr. Mulgrew expressed...something less than concern over the tragedy," he said.

"He didn't give a fuck, did he?" Billy asked.

"No, not really."

Billy wasn't surprised. *Me and you, Joe. Like always. Would you like a fucking benefit?* "Anything else?" he asked.

"Just one more thing. How would you characterize your relationship with the deceased?"

Billy took a moment to think about it. He coughed and then cleared his throat. "We were buddies," he said, taking the easy way out yet again. "And I'll miss him."

He had a few grand stashed away from the Jenifur gig, and the American dollars went farther than he thought they would. He didn't want to spend the day trying to decide what satin colour would look best with Joe's skin, and Joe wouldn't want it anyway. He went with the plain pine package.

"I should be almost in LA by now," he said to the casket. Poor Joe. The media was wild outside the funeral parlour, but he managed to keep them out of the service. Pipefitter was beside him, stony faced, and John was against the aisle, sobbing into his hands. Billy wanted to comfort him, but he didn't know how. Fuck Joe. The words had been in his head for so long it was almost a comfort now. Fuck him and his...he looked up. Coffin. Fuck him and his coffin and his need for a closed casket service. No way was he going to let the vultures downstairs fix him up with enough silly putty to make him look life-like. The fucker blew his own head off. Fuck him looking like he hadn't.

"Fuck, Billy," Piper said, and then sunk lower in his seat. Billy looked around, and suddenly he was back in the alley behind Joe's house where Joe had shot the dog. He hadn't killed it and the blood had slowed and clotted in the time they stood over it, watching. It was barely able to twitch, but it hadn't died.

Joe's father had come back to work, and the way he looked at them.fuck. Joe had shoved the gun his hand and turned around to face his father, and Billy, best of buddies that he was, took off like he'd been shot as well.

He had heard Joe's father shouted at the end of the block. By the time he got home his mother had already been called and he was in just as much shit, but he had dumped the gun under the old rain barrel in the back, and no matter how much his mother had threatened to take away his guitar, he hadn't ratted Joe out.

Mr. Mulgrew.Billy frowned, trying to pull him his first name. He never really had one. His mom and dad were always David and Kim to Joe, but Mr. Mulgrew was always Mr. Mulgrew.

"I hope you're happy now, William," Mulgrew said.

Billy looked up. There was a lot of Joe in the old man. No wonder Joe wore a Mohawk and pierced himself. Mr. Mulgrew was thick, not fat, but he had Joe's blue eyes. Billy shook his head for a heartbeat, and then looked back to the casket.

"Ecstatic," he said, flatly. Not looking at the man made him angrier, but what the fuck was he expecting? He scared the holy shit out of him when he was sixteen. Now he was just old and thick and sad.

The old man was looking for a fight, but Billy went back to staring at the casket and Mulgrew was left arguing alone. Eventually he backed away.

Billy didn't go to the interment. He didn't want to see Joe being lowered down. He sat down on the empty church steps; the ghouls had followed the hearse to the graveyard. He opened the bottle he'd stashed in his jacket, and didn't look up when he heard, "Mr. Tallent?"

Billy didn't look up. He didn't want to hear any more, "Joe Dick changed my life" stories.

The kid was skinny; junky skinny. Bleached blond hair cut with a fucking weed-wacker. Green eyes though, not blue. It was cold out; Billy's breath was visible, but the kid wore a lumber jacket with torn off sleeves. He scratched his arm, careful not to scratch either the track marks or the shiny new tattoo on his upper arm.

Champion spark plug logo.

*What the fuck did you do, Joe*

"Sit down," Billy said.

The kid sank down gratefully and hugged himself. Goosebumps the size of pennies were all over his arms. "What are you doing here, kid?" Billy asked.

"He sent me a bus ticket two days ago for today. I came straight from the bus station."

Billy lit up a cigarette. The nicotine soothed him, but the kid stared at him so hungrily that Billy passed it over and lit up a new one. "You play, kid?"

The boy winced. "Not good. Not like you."

"Where'd he find you?" Billy asked. The kid made him feel old, too fucking old. He rubbed his face.

The boy blinked. "Vancouver," he said.

That was obvious. Billy rubbed his face again. "He sent you a ticket?"

The boy nodded. "We... uh, he... uh, let me crash at his place."

Billy looked over to him. He wanted to ask if Joe fucked him, too, but he didn't want to know the answer. "He fucked up," Billy said, instead.

The kid looked ready to cry. If Billy gave him any money it would probably go straight into his veins, but he gave over the last of his money. For Joe. The kid stared at it, wanting to refuse it, but grabbed it and stuffed it into his pocket. "Take care, kid," he said.

The boy nodded, sniffed, and shuffled off.

Billy watched him go, and shook his head. Too fucking old.


End file.
